Flight of the Grey Griffon
by Ravenia
Summary: It wasn't supposed to be like this. She promised to stay with him and rule Ferelden together. Somehow King Alistair must pick up the pieces and rule without his queen. Short one shot tale of grief and coming to terms with loss.


_AN: Credit for the idea of this tale must also be given to Cmessaz's IRS:Alistair mod, containing TMP7704's scene at the end, where the PC has a choice to let Alistair kill the archdemon or to knock him out so she takes the blow. Then you get to see the aftermath of the killing with Alistair (or the PC) holding their fallen lover._

_Disclaimer: All rights and properties to Dragon Age and the characters and world contained within this tale belong to Bioware. _

**Flight of the Grey Griffon**

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Despite she should've been here, despite she had promised to help him, rule with him, she was gone. Sometimes, in the night, he dreamed and they were happier times, a time that never existed, save in his imagination.

If only he had known, if only there had been some way to save her. He'd gone over the events of that day in his mind a thousand times in the days following that fateful moment on the rooftop of Fort Drakon.

He had insisted on striking the blow and ending the Blight. He was going to be a lousy king anyway, Anora would have been so much better at it. And he loved her, sister Grey Warden, lover, helpmate, friend, loved her more than his own life. How could he let the woman he loved make that blow when he could instead offer his life up for hers? If only he hadn't let her demand one last kiss from him, if only he had been quicker, and dodged the steel clad fist that slammed into his jaw, knocking him off balance. If only the rooftop hadn't been so slick with blood and rain, he wouldn't have lost his footing, losing precious seconds she stole from him to make her own rush on the downed dragon.

Though he was stronger, she was the more nimble, quicker. She had snatched his blade from the roof where he'd dropped it as he fell, and raced toward the fallen dragon striking the killing blow, driving his sword deep into the creature's brain.

There was a horrible light, a column reaching from the archdemon's head to the heavens, parting the clouds. She was screaming and he tried to move toward her, but the force of the archdemon's soul passing through the conduit of her body into—wherever its ultimate destination was—buffeted him and blew him back.

When it was done, and the howling of the creature died down, there was only the sound of continued battle as the darkspawn were harried back to their underground domain by the armies of Ferelden.

Then there was silence as the sounds of battle fell away and he moved to where she lay, crumpled on the rooftop like a child's toy casually tossed into a corner. He straightened her limbs and held her tenderly, begging her unmoving form not to leave him.

At first he had sought comfort in denial, surely Riordan was wrong. She was still so warm, had been so vital and alive only moments before. But her flesh grew cold quickly. He wouldn't let anyone take her body, insisted on carrying it from the rooftop himself, as if by maintaining physical contact with her, he could deny what all his senses, what his mind was screaming at him to accept.

He couldn't bring himself to cry. It felt unreal to him.

* * *

There had followed a period of anger, where he blamed Loghain for killing the other Grey Wardens, turning back reinforcements and leaving Ferelden with only two. He blamed Duncan for dying, blamed Riordan for not telling them sooner about the archdemon. He blamed everyone, including himself, and her most of all for taking that choice from him.

In the days following, Wynne, Leliana and Teagan had tried to comfort him, to reach past the wall of anger he placed around himself, but nothing penetrated it.

There was a funeral and he gave the eulogy, speaking something about how they all owed her so much, how much she would be missed, but the only thought running through his mind through those dark days was "If only".

A thousand "if only's" later and he still had no tears.

* * *

Her ashes were sealed and sent to be enclosed in the family tomb at Highever. A place had been prepared for her in Weisshaupt, but no one, least of all Alistair, wanted her remains shipped so far away. Possibly a generation from now, her ashes would be interred with the other wardens who had died ending the Blights. For now, a nation mourned and needed the symbol she represented to heal.

The nation expressed its grief and gratitude in tears and song for their heroine, but its king remained dry eyed still.

Revelations came after things settled down.

Fergus was alive. She would have been so happy to know her brother survived, but it was too late. She was gone, and Alistair would never know if she had given up, or if the Blight had forced her to abandon her desire to find her brother. She hadn't spoken of him since the day they entered Lothering, though there were times he found her crying, grieving for her family, her brother, when she could steal quiet moments away from the camp.

At least Alistair could give the Teryn back his home. It was just a formality. Howe had taken it by the foulest means, and it was only justice to return it to its rightful lord. It would never make up for all Fergus had lost, but at least he had his home again.

Amaranthine, Howe's holdings which fell under the jurisdiction of Highever's lords, was turned over to the Grey Wardens.

"She would have liked that," Fergus said, and Alistair felt this was so.

* * *

Three months later, a mountain of duties surrounded him still, and already behind him was a long chain of worries. Orlais was already sniffing around their western border looking to take advantage of the weakened state in which Ferelden currently operated. Lost manpower, land, resources all bled into the infighting of the civil war and then fighting the Blight itself. Some days Alistair didn't seek out his bed till dawn already broke the horizon. He had a lot of help from Eamon, but there were things only the king could do.

He wasn't good with the hard decisions, sometimes leaving them to Eamon to make, but he was getting better at it.

He was numb inside, just going through the motions of life. He hadn't found his tears or shared any of what he was feeling with anyone, until even Wynne and Leliana had given up on him, though Teagan continued to try.

Tonight he sat looking at a box Teagan gave him. It had been left by _her _he'd explained. Before they had marched to that final battle. It wasn't very large, but Teagan told him she'd emphasized it was important it be given to him a few months after the battle. He felt Alistair was ready, he'd said before excusing himself to give the king some privacy.

He set it carefully on the desk and released the latch, opening it slowly. Inside he found a pair of daggers (her spares, she'd called them), a small silver inlaid ebony box and a letter, carefully sealed with the Cousland crest pressed into grey wax. He pulled a silver letter opener from his desk and slipped it under the seal, breaking it and opening the letter.

Smoothing it out on his desk, he began to read the letter written in her broad script.

_My dearest Alistair,_

_If you are reading this, then Riordan never made it to the final battle, and it was my hand that struck the blow killing the archdemon. When Riordan spoke to us tonight about the link between the Grey Wardens and the Old Gods, I knew I would never let you take that blow, though I don't doubt that you would argue that point with me. I love you for that._

_You are to be king, and I know I promised I'd be there to help you, I'm so sorry I can't. _

_I know you're grieving, and I wouldn't presume to tell you how to handle this, or how long you should grieve, only you know what's best for you. All I ask is when you are done, honor the life I am offering you and let my memory remain in the past. _

_I know Eamon will pressure you to marry and produce an heir. Tell him to shove it. Make who you marry your choice, not his._

_Tonight I find myself remembering that first day I saw you. I actually thought you were kind of goofy looking. Then you opened your mouth and said something silly as I grew to understand you did all the time. In that first laughter I knew you were someone I was going to enjoy getting to know._

_My only regret was we had so little time together. That first night after the Landsmeet I dreamed of eternity with you. I didn't know time had run out until it was gone._

_You have something like thirty years left. Live well, live gloriously, but most of all, live. I know you can do this and if you can, then I know I can face whatever I have to with a glad heart._

_E_

He closed his eyes for a moment as the words sunk into his mind, fighting the riot of emotions they stirred. He could still hear her voice in them.

Lifting the silver inlaid ebony box he opened it and found, perfectly preserved, the rose he had given her so long ago. She had accepted it with a lightness of heart that he had tried to respond to, though he'd been terrified. Something inane about it being his 'new weapon of choice' just sprang from his lips. Then she'd laughed that rich, easy, warm laugh of hers and he relaxed, knowing his feelings were reciprocated.

He removed it from the box, holding the petals reverently in his large hand, he brought it to his cheek, remembering her scent and the softness of her skin, her voice.

Remembering all they had, thinking of all that should have been, and all that would never be Alistair wept.


End file.
